


Sparrow

by branwyn



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Homelessness, M/M, Past Abuse, Sansa's a survivor, Sex Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-07 04:01:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12225351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/branwyn/pseuds/branwyn
Summary: There's a mad beggar maid singing under the window of Oberyn's favorite chamber in the brothel.





	Sparrow

**Author's Note:**

> Edited a day after posting because WOW there were a lot of typos and ungainly sentences.

The pillow house that Oberyn frequented in Sunspear was, arguably, the best that the shadow city had to offer. But it wasn’t the sort of establishment where most people would expect to find a prince taking his pleasure. Not unless that prince was the Red Viper of Dorne, who, it was commonly known, had acquired low tastes in the course of a misspent youth. 

The whores at Mirabel’s house, girls and boys alike, were all common, all Dornish, most born and raised within a mile of the establishment where they now worked. In his youth, Oberyn had passed many a merry hour in the brothels of Oldtown, where one occasionally encountered exotic imports—courtesans from Lys who had fallen on hard times, bed-slaves with teardrop tattoos who had escaped from Essos. But Oberyn preferred Mirabel’s to any house of sighing he had ever visited. It was home, after all, and after spending so much of his life abroad—and _especially_ after his visit to King’s Landing a year ago—he had a new appreciation for the charms of his home.

Lately, he had been spending his evenings in the company of a youth who went by the name of Jasper. For his eyes, he said, though to Oberyn, Jasper’s eyes were more hazel than green. But they were pretty nonetheless, and had something of innocence in them still, which was what had drawn Oberyn to him in the first place.

One afternoon, Oberyn was lounging abed with Jasper’s head in his lap, sipping wine and trading puffs on a pipe laced with dragonsmoke from Yi Ti, when he heard the sound of singing in the distance. It was a pretty, mournful little tune, entirely unfamiliar to him, though Oberyn had a substantial collection of songs from the world over. And the singer—a girl, he thought, or else a very young boy—had a sweet, high, clear voice. There was something of refinement, of training, in the precise timing between notes.

Considering that the shadow city rarely boasted any music save for bawdy drinking songs bellowed in drunkard’s choruses from the taverns at night, hearing such a song in such a place could not help but attract Oberyn's interest, though he was scarcely wanting in distractions at the moment.

He frowned at the open window, picturing the dark, narrow alley that ran beneath it. It was scarcely an ideal place for a singer who was hoping to exhibit her skill in exchange for coin. She would do better to find some shaded spot in the bazaar, where she would be more likely to be heard by persons with coin to spare for a pretty song.

Her voice, carried on a breeze, wafted into their room: _sing sorrow, sorrow, sorrow, tu-er-lu..._ Jasper lifted his head briefly, and sighed.

“The mad beggar maid again,” he said. “She presented herself to Mirabel a sennight ago. Asked if she could sing to entertain the guests in exchange for room and board. Mirabel told her there was no work for singers here, and she’d better go back to her family. Instead she sits in the alley. Doesn’t even have a beggar’s bowl to hold the few coins she gets. The girls sneak bread out to her in the evenings. They feel sorry for her.”

Oberyn shifted in the bed, sitting up. Jasper started to rise too, but Oberyn kept him down with a hand on his shoulder. “She is mad?” he said.

“They call her so. Most beggars are mad, aren’t they? Or they end up that way before long.” 

Oberyn grunted. “She would have done better to present herself at the palace. My niece favors music at all her entertainments.”

Jasper gave a faint snort. “Begging your pardon, Prince Oberyn, but our sort know better than to turn up at the gates of the palace in rags and expect a welcome.”

Oberyn frowned down at him, vaguely offended. “My brother is most liberal towards the poor of his city.”

“Prince Doran is the soul of generosity. The men who guard his gates are another matter.” Jasper took the wine goblet from Oberyn’s lips and drank deeply before handing it back to him. “Besides, she wasn’t really palace quality. She sounds sweet enough today, but some days she’s hoarse as an old crow. Keeps singing anyway. Always the same bloody song, too. You’d think she’d want to sing something cheerful once in a while to keep the spirits up, but it’s always _sorrow, sorrow, sorrow, tra la la..._ ” 

Jasper sang the refrain in a ridiculous high falsetto that made Oberyn laugh and swat him. Jasper responded with a vexing little moan, and a moment later both the singer and her sad song were entirely forgotten.

Oberyn remembered the singer again when he departed Mirabel’s just after sunset, once the day was cool enough to travel back to the palace without lathering his horse. A servant was dispatched to fetch the horse from the stables nearby. While Oberyn waited, he went to peer down the mouth of the alley, curious what he would see.

What he saw was a hunched figure, covered in a tattered grey cloak, with the hood pulled so low that the face was entirely hidden from view. From a distance, there was little to suggest that the shape was human, much less female. But then Oberyn noticed the birds: two sparrows, mere puffs of grey-brown feathers, hopping to and fro near the heap of rags, as though trying to attract attention.

A moment later, a small white hand emerged, scattering a few bread crumbs on the ground. The birds descended on their bounty. When no crumbs remained, one of the sparrows flew off again. The other, however, hopped into the beggar girl’s hand, then fluttered its wings and came to perch on her shoulder. Oberyn's heart was wrung with pity all of a sudden. They were two helpless, unloved little beings, but they seemed to find solace in one another’s company.

 _Does this mad beggar maid receive such an abundance of food from Mirabel’s girls that she can afford to feed other starving creatures?_ Oberyn wondered. _Or is she merely so lonely that it is worth sacrificing some of her meager repast to secure the companionship of dumb beasts?_

Silently, Oberyn proceeded a little further. The cloak the beggar girl was wearing was dirty and ragged—but on closer inspection, Oberyn could see that it had once been a superior garment. Grey silk had been woven into the fine wool; the sheen of the silk threads would reveal a subtle but ornate pattern when exposed to better light. Was this some traveler’s charitable cast off? Even a rag merchant would have charged more for such a cloak than a beggar maid could afford to pay. Or was it a relic from the life she had left behind? Jasper had said that Mirabel told the girl to return to her family. Mirabel had a shrewd eye; she must have had some reason to believe that the girl _had_ a family, one that was well able to provide for her. So why had the girl ignored her counsel? What could make her prefer a life of beggary and near-starvation to whatever had come before?

And why, Oberyn wondered, did she keep that hood drawn so low over her face? Was she hideous, perhaps? That might explain much. If she had known cruelty in her father’s house, and been brave enough to flee from it, one could easily imagine how she had ended up in dire straits. Truthfully, if her face _were_ a horror, it would be to her advantage to display it openly—beggars in King’s Landing had been known to mutilate themselves, sacrificing an eye or an ear, so as to stir the pity and loosen the purse strings of passers-by. An afflicted maid with a sweet singing voice might soon earn enough to keep a modest sort of roof over her head, if she displayed herself to best advantage.

But perhaps she was ashamed. Even beggar maids might have their pride, especially if they had not been beggars all their lives.

Oberyn stood there, watching her from a distance, and suddenly, he felt his heart contract in his chest. He had pitied her as soon as he laid eyes upon her, but this was something deeper—compassion that lanced like a blade.

 _If she is mad, it is no doubt the madness of some great grief. She had wit enough to try for respectable employment. That shows that she is not without reason._ Perhaps it was as Jasper had said—if she was not mad when she presented herself to Mirabel, she might have lost her wits thereafter, trapped in this alley with only sparrows for company.

Oberyn had come near to being a beggar a time or two in his life. But for him, there had always been a choice between starvation and thievery, and he had usually opted for thievery. Yet this girl had not thieved, or Doran’s shariffs would have caught her by now. Even in her desperation, she had tried to gain honest, chaste employment. _She might make a fine septa,_ Oberyn thought, and as soon as the notion rooted in his head it began to sprout, the fine shoots of a plan unfurling across his brain.

Any Motherhouse would accept a girl of good character, no matter how low her birth, if a septa’s dowry could be found for her. Oberyn was a pious man; he gave large offerings to the Faith every twelvemonth. A septa’s dowry would be a mere pittance atop that.

A warm feeling spread in his chest. He had rarely felt more pleased with himself. After all, it was not every day that he found it within his power to translate a beggar maid from penury to comfort in the twinkling of an eye. Perhaps Ellaria’s love goddess had smiled down upon his afternoon with Jasper. They had passed a languid few hours together; Jasper was a sweet boy, and he brought out something tender, almost protective in Oberyn, something more than mere lust. Oberyn was thinking of finding some position at the Old Palace for him, where he would never again be at the mercy of customers who did not have Oberyn's tender manners abed. Perhaps that six-teated monstrosity of an idol that Ellaria kept tucked in the corner of her room approved, and had given him this gift, that he might offer it up to his own gods in turn.

Slowly, not wanting to startle her, Oberyn approached the hunched grey form of the maid, allowing just the barest crackle of the grit beneath his heels to give her warning that he was nearby. He could tell when she registered his presence, because she drew a deep, sudden breath. The jerky movement startled the sparrow on her shoulder into fluttering its wings in alarm.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said, soothing her as he would a spooked horse. “I mean you no harm, nor will I lay hands on you. Let me see your face, if you please.”

For a long moment, Oberyn was afraid she would not obey. He crouched down to the level of her eyes, waiting. Then, slowly, she tugged the hood back from her face. Round blue eyes darted up in a fearful glance before she bowed her head, revealing a crown of glorious red hair.

 _Not disfigured at all, then,_ Oberyn thought, stunned by the brief glimpse of her fair beauty. _So that is why she hides her face. She knows what a temptation she would be to the worst sort of men._ Perhaps she had fled a cruel husband. Perhaps she lacked protectors, and was being pursued by a cruel man who _wished_ to be her husband. The plot of every romantic tale he had ever heard seemed suddenly plausible, now that he had laid eyes on the flower in this rubbish heap.

“Prince Oberyn,” she said. Her voice wobbled and broke in the middle of his name.

His eyebrows flew to his hairline. “You know me?” he said, he said.

She nodded, keeping her head down.

“You have seen me before? Here, at Mirabel’s?”

She hesitated, then shook her head.

Oberyn frowned. “What is your name?”

She shrugged. “Mirabel’s girls call me Ruby. For my hair.”

“And what did your mother call you?”

An even longer silence followed this question. Then, slowly, she lifted her face towards his. This time, she did not glance away again. As her features rose into view, framed by sheathes of wavy red hair, a dim recollection began to stir at the back of Oberyn’s mind.

“My name is Sansa.” She moistened her lips. “Sansa Stark.”

Oberyn reeled backwards and onto his feet again. 

“Gods be good,” he breathed. “Lady Sansa—how came you to Dorne? Why did you not make your presence in Sunspear known? How long have you remained in this place, so undefended? Anything might have happened to you!”

“Everything that can happen to me has already happened to me,” she said—softly, almost casually. “Except for death, and I expect that will come soon enough.”

Oberyn gaped at her. Well he remembered the Imp’s sad, beautiful young wife. They had spoken only briefly, after Joffrey’s wedding breakfast, but he remembered the deep sense of unease he had felt for her, even as he had teased her for her precious naïvete. She’d had the most beautiful manners, he remembered, but one had only to look at her eyes to see that she was very, very far away, the essence of her locked up safely in some hidden room in the dark recesses of her mind. 

A half-formed scheme had come to Oberyn later that day, while he was forced to sit through the King's endless seventy-seven course wedding banquet. It had occurred to him that if he invited Lord Tyrion and his lovely wife, the Lady of Winterfell, to Dorne, it might be possible to separate them permanently. It was well known at court that Sansa Stark was yet a maid, that Lord Tyrion had never consummated their marriage. If Oberyn could get them to Dorne, he could ply Lord Tyrion with wine and amusements, and set Ellaria and the girls on Sansa, until she saw that an annulment would be the best thing for her. Once she was free of her Lannister husband, she might find herself pleased to marry Quentyn. Or, if Doran decided to pursue his dragon-hunting scheme, Sansa might be fostered for a few years—and then married to Oberyn himself. 

He’d been forced to put all such thoughts aside when Joffrey choked to death, and Sansa disappeared in the chaos that followed. Many a time since then, he had wondered, rather forlornly, what had become of that shy, lovely girl who had asked him wide-eyed questions about the true story of Baelor the Blessed's encounter with the serpents in the Boneway. All manner of dire fates had occurred to him—but never for an instant had it crossed his mind that she might be _here_ , friendless and alone in his own country.

The beggar maid who sat huddled at his feet under her once-fine cloak little resembled the highborn lady he had met a year ago—save for a certain hunted expression in her eyes. For every day that had passed since then, she seemed to have aged five. The child-softness had been starved out of her cheeks, and she leaned her head back against the wall as though she were too weary to support its weight.

“Why should you die, Lady Sansa?” He took a cautious step forward, then once again knelt in the dirt across from her. “We knew each other but little before, but you cannot seriously believe that I would abandon you now that I have found you? They tell many tales of me in King’s Landing, I know, but not even my enemies have ever claimed that I was wanting in chivalry towards innocent maids.”

She stared at him for a long moment, her eyes fluttering half-shut, as though she could scarcely keep them open.

“Now that you have found me, Prince Oberyn,” she said, “you can do but one of two things. You can either leave me here, or you can take me to your brother, Prince Doran. If you leave me, I will starve soon. If you give me to Prince Doran, he will have no choice but to give me to the Lannisters, who will cut off my head.”

Sansa Stark shut her eyes. She pulled her hood down over her face again, and drew her knees up to her chest, as though she had already dismissed him.

“If you wish to be merciful, then let me be,” she half-whispered, her voice muffled by the hood. “I would rather die a beggar in Dorne than ever set foot in King’s Landing again, even if it was to receive a pardon from King Tommen. And I certainly will not be pardoned.” 

“You think that I, or my brother, would give you to the Lannisters?” said Oberyn, softly. “Lady Sansa. I thought you knew who I was.”

“Dorne is loyal to the Iron Throne.”

“Dorne is loyal to Dorne.” He let finality ring through his words. “And if you think Doran or I would surrender an innocent maid up into the clutches of the same family that ordered our sister raped and murdered with her children—then, Lady Sansa, I am afraid you do not know either of us.”

“You keep saying I am innocent.” Her voice took a hoarse turn. “Do you not know that I was condemned along with my husband for Joffrey's murder?”

“You were accused, not condemned. No one save Cersei ever believed you guilty—and Lord Tyrion did his best to exonerate you when he made his confession. I was one of the three judges presiding at his trial, and we were all satisfied of your innocence, even Lord Tywin. Now that Lord Tywin is dead and the Queen Mother has been removed as Regent, I doubt there is a high lord in all of Westeros who would return you to the Lannisters. No one cares enough for their favor any longer.” He let the hard note return to his voice. “But House Martell would not surrender you under any circumstances. I swear it, by Sun and Spear and Seven.”

Sansa was silent for a long moment.

“You are very kind,” she whispered. “But it would still be kinder of you to leave me here.”

“Lady Sansa.” Oberyn’s chest filled with something that burned hotter than the self-satisfaction he’d felt earlier. There was compassion in it, and determination, and no small amount of anger. “I think it has been so long since anyone has been kind to you that you have forgotten the very meaning of the word.”

She looked up at him, startled. Then she blinked, and tears dripped from her eyes, and she looked down again.

“Can you stand?” said Oberyn, rising to his feet. 

She hesitated, then shook her head slowly.

“Then permit me to assist you.” 

He extended his hand, and waited patiently for her to take it. 

 

*

Sansa sat on a divan in a white marble room, clutching a hot cup of mint tea between her fingers, as she listened to the argument taking place behind the shut doors of the room adjoining. Or was it an argument? Perhaps Prince Oberyn shouted even when he and Prince Doran were in agreement. Prince Oberyn was…exuberant, that way. Sansa had noticed that some time ago.

Sansa reached into the hood of her cloak and rubbed her fingertip over the sparrow’s feathers. She had first begun to dream of flying after Ser Dontos put her on the ship to Dorne. He had explained very little before she left King's Landing, only that Lord Baelish was lying in wait for her and that he meant her no good, and that if Sansa ever wished to be free, she must go far away and never look back. There had been three ships, three destinations, to choose from. One was the Summer Isles; one was Norvos; one was Dorne. She had tried the Norvosi ship first, but the passage was more dear than Ser Dontos could afford. Dorne had been her next choice, but for a long while she feared that she had chosen wrongly. In the Summer Isles, she would have been helpless, unable to speak the language, marked by her fair skin as an outsider, but there at least no one cared much for the Iron Throne. Dorne was a different matter, she had thought. In Dorne, she must be careful not to draw attention to herself. She would have to disappear.

She had nearly succeeded.

Only for the sake of the sparrows had she managed to endure for so long. The first time she had dreamed of flying out over the ocean, the ship a tiny speck far below, she had awakened to find a gull perched in the porthole of her cabin. It had hopped over to her cot and given her a nudge with its beak, before flying off again. Another time, she had dreamed of being a raven; it was a Maester’s raven, traveling towards a city she recognized from afar as King’s Landing. Sansa had been afraid of going back to King’s Landing, even as a bird, so the raven had banked in midair and started back towards the Reach.

Here in Dorne, it was the sand sparrows who came to her. It wasn’t easy, even for such small birds, to forage enough worms and scraps out of the rocky sand. The first time she had dreamed her way into the sparrow, she had felt the aching hunger in its belly, an echo of the same hunger she felt in her own body when she woke up. After that, whenever Gemma or Velvet brought her bread, she shared it with the sparrow, and any friends it brought with it. Now the sparrow— _her_ sparrow, she could always tell it apart from the others—was as good as a pet. It slept inside her hood most nights, its soft feathers brushing her cheek.

It was a blessing when she began to have the dreams by daylight, because they provided release from the dreary tedium of her existence as a beggar. One day, her sparrow had been perched on the windowsill of the room above her customary spot in the alley when the chamber door opened, and Prince Oberyn entered. The sparrow knew him immediately, but felt safe enough on its window ledge to stay and observe for a moment. There was a boy with the prince, a boy the sparrow had seen about Mirabel's many times before. The prince was removing the boy’s shirt; he was angry about something. There were dark blotches along the boy’s skin. The prince was angry because he wanted to know who had left the bruises. When the boy grew afraid, the prince had drawn him into his arms and soothed him.

When Sansa came back to herself, her cheeks had been burning. But her heart had started to beat fast. Prince Oberyn had such a fiercesome reputation—yet Sansa knew the boy he was with, Jasper. He was only a whore. Why should a prince care what happened to a whore, let alone promise to avenge him?

Over the week that followed, the sparrow had seen a good deal of Prince Oberyn. He visited Mirabel's several times a week, and he always made use of the same chamber. Since the sparrow wasn’t embarrassed to look upon men in a state of undress, Sansa herself had soon stopped feeling embarrassed. She was less interested in what happened when the prince was abed than in his behavior afterwards. Prince Oberyn cared for Jasper tenderly after he had taken his pleasure of him. At first Sansa assumed the prince was merely very partial to Jasper; but on one occasion, he had repaired to the upstairs chamber with Velvet, and he had been no less tender towards her.

Prince Oberyn was not the ruling prince of Dorne; that was his elder brother, Doran, and Sansa knew very little of Prince Doran's character. But gradually, she had come to ask herself whether a man who shook with rage when a whore was beaten by a cruel customer could possibly be suspected of offering violence to a highborn maid who had been reduced to beggary—whatever crimes she was accused of committing. 

Besides, it was well known in King’s Landing that the elder princes of House Martell wanted vengeance against the Lannisters for the death of their sister Princess Elia. The longer Sansa thought about it—and she had nothing to do to pass the time _except_ think—the less likely it seemed that Prince Oberyn or his brother would wish to send her back to Cersei. And once she had come to that conclusion, she had been helpless to resist the temptation of revealing herself to them. She could not march up to him in all boldness, not looking the way she did now; she had no idea whether Prince Oberyn would recognize or remember her. So she had done the only thing she knew to do. She had begun to sing.

Every day and night, beneath the chamber window, she sang. Even when the men from the tavern next door threw empty tankards at her, she sang. Whether the sparrow was near enough to be her eyes into the chamber or not, she sang. Sooner or later, Prince Oberyn was bound to hear. He was curious man, Sansa believed. Once he heard, he would want to look.

It had been almost easy to get what she needed from Prince Oberyn. But Prince Doran was still a mystery. After bringing her to the palace, Oberyn had conducted Sansa straight to his brother’s solar, commanding servants to fetch food and drink. As soon as they were all alone together, he had announced Sansa’s identity with a flourish, as though he took great pride in having discovered her. Prince Doran’s face had remained blank and unreadable during their introduction, but he had greeted Sansa with no want of courtesy, and had expressed concern over the state of her appearance.

Oberyn had explained the circumstances in which he found her before Sansa had a chance to speak a word, but that was just as well. The meeker she seemed, the less she would be required to say. Better to be silent, than to say something that might accidentally turn Prince Doran against her.

After the servants had arrived with the food, Prince Doran bade her eat and drink her fill. Then he had excused himself and his brother to next room.

Judging from the way Oberyn’s voice was carrying through the walls, the two princes were in disagreement over something. Her ears strained for, but did not detect, the sound of her name. But the anxiety was gnawing at her stomach worse than her hunger; she could not sit here and do nothing any longer. Oh, it had been easy to tell Prince Oberyn that she no longer cared whether she lived or died, for in that alley, she had meant it. But she cared now. Now that it seemed there was a possibility that the Martells might be willing to protect her, she wanted to live with every fiber of her being.

Sansa left the table, which was still piled high with food—she had only been able to manage a few bites—and walked out onto the marvelous terrace balcony off Prince Doran’s solar. She approached the low wall and gazed out over the sparkling blue sea. A few gulls were perched on the balcony as well, hoping back and forth on webbed feet. 

It would be a fine thing, Sansa thought, to be a gull just now—to soar beneath the clouds, to dive for fish and feel the spray of the waves along the underside of her wings—

She did not realize how close she was to slipping away until she heard a shout from behind her. Suddenly, Oberyn was pulling her backwards into his arms, and Sansa realized that she had been listing forward, putting herself at risk of toppling over the balcony wall.

“Lady Sansa,” said Oberyn breathlessly. “What ails you? Did you eat enough? Do you need water?”

“I am well,” she said quickly. “Only I needed air, and then…I grew faint.”

Had it looked like a fainting spell from where Prince Oberyn was standing? Or had it looked as though she meant to throw herself into the sea? Just then, Sansa noticed that Prince Doran had wheeled his chair out onto the balcony in pursuit of his brother. Judging from the pity in his eyes, he had seen the whole thing, and come to his own conclusion about her intentions.

Well. Let him believe what he would. Perhaps his pity would keep her alive a little longer.

“Lady Sansa,” said Prince Doran. “Please, come back inside and be seated. You are very pale.”

Oberyn took her arm and guided her back to the tale. He sat to her left, while Doran positioned his chair at her right.

“My brother has explained your present circumstances to me. I am mortified to learn that you have suffered so long in Dorne without my knowledge, Lady Sansa. Had you notified me of your arrival, you would have been well cared for. Now that you are...shall we say, no longer laboring under certain misapprehensions, I hope you will accept my offer of hospitality and protection. Neither my brother nor I will permit anyone to remove you from Dorne without your consent.”

It was more than Sansa had hoped for—it was _everything_ —but she was afraid to seem too eager. “But would this not endanger you? I am wanted by the Lannisters for kingslaying—”

“We are able to protect ourselves, as well as you,” Doran said, his tone both resolute and reassuring. “But it is your choice. If you do not wish to remain in Dorne, then you will be supplied with clothing, money, and the means to travel wherever you wish. Certainly in Essos, you would be at a far greater distance from King’s Landing.”

Sansa caught her breath and tried to imagine the possibilities. To travel wherever she liked—to see new lands and cities—to know that no one would recognize her, drag her back to the capital—

Something made her turn and glance at Prince Oberyn. As soon as she was facing him, she found him pulling his hand back, as though he had been reaching for her, only to think better of it at the last second.

Unbidden, a rush of images came back to her. She had seen Oberyn nude at his lovemaking; she had seen him giggling afterwards, and once, weeping; she had heard him sing and tell jokes and listen soothingly while Jasper spoke of his troubles. Prince Oberyn was a good and gentle man, whatever his reputation suggested to the contrary. 

And he was unmarried. There was his paramour, Ellaria Sand, but rumor had it she was eager to see her prince married, for some reason. Perhaps she wanted to leave him. Perhaps she simply wanted an ally to help her manage Oberyn’s eight bastard daughters.

Sansa had been on her own for a long time—since long before Ser Dontos watched her board the ship to Dorne, really. She had been alone since the day her father was beheaded. Alone was freedom, but freedom could be a terrible thing. 

_The only thing I want in this world is for my family to come back,_ Sansa thought. _Maybe this is how the gods have chosen to answer my prayers—by giving me a new family, here in Dorne._

“If you will have me, Prince Doran,” she whispered. “I would be very grateful indeed—”

She shocked herself by bursting into tears. The uppermost layer of her thoughts had been so busy calculating moves and possibilities and outcomes that she had not noticed the storm brewing just below it. _I want to live with kind people again,_ she thought, burying her face in her hands. _I want to eat lemon cakes and be warm at night and sleep peacefully, without fearing for what might happen—_

“Lady Sansa.” There was a low scrape of chair legs against marble, and then a strong hand was catching hold of her arm, pulling her against a warm, broad chest. Oberyn brushed his hand over the dirty, tangled mass of her hair, and tucked her head into his shoulder. “Will you stay with us, then?”

Sansa nodded mutely against the embroidered silk of his surcoat. From the corner of her eye, Sansa saw Prince Doran wheeling his chair towards the door. As he passed them, his hand brushed the back of Sansa’s elbow. 

“Be welcome in Dorne, child,” he said softly. "This is your home now."

A few minutes later, when it was just Sansa and Oberyn alone in the prince's solar, her sparrow, discomfited by the activity taking place in its immediate vicinity, hopped out of Sansa’s hood and fluttered a few feet away to perch on the back of an empty chair. It ruffled its feathers indignantly and began to preen them.

“Cheeky beggar,” said Oberyn softly, with a small smile. “He smuggled himself into the palace with you.”

“No,” said Sansa. “He belongs with me. I am blind without him.”


End file.
